


Laying With The Dragon

by Alyss_Baskerville



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Politics, Arranged Marriage, Attraction, Character Development, Cunnilingus, Dragons, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Infidelity, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Growing Up Together, Infidelity, Joanna Lannister lives, Kings & Queens, Lust, Nobility, Oral Sex, Rivalry, Royalty, Sibling Incest, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Unstable Relationships, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-08-28 02:05:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16714477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alyss_Baskerville/pseuds/Alyss_Baskerville
Summary: "You are a daughter, my dearest," her father told her coldly. "You cannot inherit. And that is why your only purpose is to wed.""There is no one in this accursed land worthy of you, Rhaegar," his father hissed. "All pretenders. All parasites with filth in their veins! We are the blood of Old Valyria! We must have a proper cunt to bury your Valyrian seed in."





	1. Chapter 1

_**271 AC** _

Why did Father name me after her, she wondered, staring at her reflection in the mirror. Two violet eyes stared back at her, large, lustrous, and framed with feathery eyelashes. The eyes of Old Valyria. Long, slightly wavy, silver-gold hair fell down her back and shoulders. Her skin was pale, her face delicate and heart-shaped. Her body, slender and light and graceful, was clad in a dress of blue-green silk. Although she was only eleven years of age, her loveliness shone, and Father was pleased beyond words with how she'd been blossoming.

 _I want you to be as magnificent as she was,_ Father had told her.  _She was descended from our house, being the daughter of Serenei of Lys. She had no lands, no titles, nothing, only the blood of Aegon IV in her veins - and heart-stopping beauty._

 _Shiera Seastar._ Her namesake had been everything her father would have wanted in a daughter. Beautiful, confident, charming, charismatic, flirtatious, adored. Despite Shiera Seastar's lack of status as a bastard of Aegon IV, men had flocked for her attention, for even just a passing glance from her. Proposal after proposal had come from all manner of powerful, influential lords, and yet Shiera Seastar had turned them all down. She had been born with nothing and had obtained everything.

Could Shiera Cerdarthien do the same? 

Shiera doubted it. There were too many differences between herself and her namesake. She had not been born with nothing. She was not a bastard. Her father cherished her as his only daughter. Her mother loved and supported her. She and her older brother, Maegor, were extremely close. In their younger years they had been mistaken as twins because of their constant companionship. 

And yet, House Cerdarthien, though ancient and descended from the dragonlords of Old Valyria, boasting an unmatched pedigree, they were impoverished. They did not have much power in Lys, where wealth was far more important than birth. Oh, House Cerdarthien had the funds to survive, no doubt, but Shiera's father was not content with simply being able to survive. He desired to thrive. 

And sometimes she felt that he eyed her hungrily, looking for any way to take advantage of the woman his daughter was becoming. Shiera's skin prickled at the thought. Father had wanted to marry her off to benefit his House since the moment she was old enough to hold memories - and perhaps even before that, from the moment that she'd been presented to him as his second child and first and only daughter.

"Shiera!" The door was flung open. Shiera spun on her vanity stool, her silver-gold locks swishing about her shoulders as she pinned the intruder with a sharp but mocking glare. The twelve-year-old flaxen-haired boy smirked, unaffected by her glower. 

Her father may dote on her, but Maegor was his pride, and the object of countless female admirers. He was a devastatingly handsome boy, with thick pale golden hair piled into tousled yet perfectly placed curls. His eyes were a darker shade of purple than Shiera's so they appeared almost black from a distance. His skin was well-tanned from the long hours he spent in the sun, training with a sword - and not to mention the resulting muscles that had formed thanks to his physical activity. Maegor was tall for his age, spry, strong, and showed promise in swordplay, spear-fighting, and archery. He was the most skilled fighter among the boys his age. 

He was the heir of the Cerdarthien house, and Shiera knew that their father had great hopes for him. Not only was Maegor showing combat prowess, his desire to learn and willingness to revive their house to its former greatness was undeniable. Today, he was holding a book in the history of Aegon the Conqueror's conquest of Westeros. 

Shiera knew all about the conquest. It had always been one of her favorite topics.

"Have you read of Visenya and the Vale, yet?" she questioned her brother. Now it was Maegor's turn to give her a glare. "Don't tell me what happens ahead of time," he chided her. "The book is enjoyable. It won't do to have you spoiling what will happen, sister." 

"Loosen your stance, Maegor," Shiera responded with an unladylike roll of her eyes. Her mother and father would be scandalized, but Maegor did not bat an eyelash. He was used to such behavior from her. "It wasn't my intention."

Her brother snorted and changed the subject. "I've been meaning to ask you, Shiera," he began. "But you are, naturally, aware that Aegon Targaryen took two sister-wives."

"Yes."

"Do you not have objections on that?"

Shiera arched her eyebrows at her brother. She wondered if he wanted to share opinions on that matter, as well as what his opinions were. "Everyone in the kingdoms knew that Aegon desired Rhaenys over Visenya, although the latter was his first wife," she pointed out. "I am not in favor of Aegon's behavior."

"What would you have done? If your husband made it publically obvious that he favored his second wife over you?"

"I would have raged at him, brother. Flown at him and tried my hardest to gouge his eyes out."

A small, amused smile floated over Maegor's lips. "You would do that, wouldn't you?" he mused, but it wasn't quite a question. He knew it was true. Shiera couldn't imagine what Visenya had to tolerate. She certainly knew her pride wouldn't have allowed her to tolerate it. The thought of infidelity in itself sickened her. Polygamy was not unheard of in Lys, but she found it distasteful. How could she possibly cope if her husband favored a usurping wench over her as well? She would not be able to bear it.

"And what of you, brother?" Shiera questioned, pinning Maegor with her violet gaze. "Do you approve of Aegon's actions?"

"Hardly," Maegor responded. "Men have their needs, but to so blatantly prefer a second wife over the first, without even the discretion of pretending to favor the first, as Aegon did? Visenya must have been at her tether's end to hear the saying 'Every night Aegon spends with Visenya, he spends ten with Rhaenys'." 

Shiera did not agree with everything her brother had said. She knew men had their needs, yes. Father had made sure she understood that at a young age - that it was expected for a man to have physical relations beyond that of his wife's bed. Should it not, however, be his duty as a husband to refrain, to have relations with only his wife? Even if they did not love each other, it seemed like basic decency to Shiera to not do your wife the insult of sharing another woman's bed. It was another matter entirely if you were not wed, but to have a wife and yet still give in to desire for another? It was distasteful. But Maegor did not see it as such, and it did not surprise Shiera. She had known for a long time of his opinion that "men had needs". 

"My lady?"

Shiera looked over at her door to see one of the six maids that worked for her house standing at the door. A girl named Anne with dark hair, olive skin, and charming brown eyes, Shiera had always liked the older female, who was thirteen years old. 

"What is it, Anne?" she asked. 

"Your father wishes to see you."

Shiera stood up, instantly feeling trepidation. Her father was not an affectionate man. He would not be commanding for her presence if there was not something important he wished to say. Nevertheless, she hid her nerves well and stood, flashing a smile of farewell at her brother. 

"Where is he?" she asked Anne. Anne answered that he was in his study. Thanking the older girl, Shiera gathered the silk of her dress' skirt and hurried through the hallways of House Cerdarthien's manor. 

___

"Father?" Shiera called softly. Stepping into her father's study, she found it dimly lit with only a few candles. The imposing figure of her father sat at his desk. He appeared to be bent over a piece of paper, writing something. Shiera was always in admiration when she saw her father working so late into the night, like now. She had been preparing to go to sleep before Maegor had entered her room.

"Ah yes. Shiera." Father turned at her call, regarding her with pale blue eyes that contrasted startlingly with the warm yellow lighting of the candles. He was a hard man to read, calm and collected, though not always cold. Shiera couldn't tell what he was thinking now, but she was relieved that he was not in a bad mood. That she could discern.

"What have you called me for, my lord?" she asked, remembering her formalities and dropping into a curtsy, lowering her gaze. She rose, looking up at her father and seeing the satisfaction in his eyes - satisfaction at what, she could not yet say. 

Orion Cerdarthien cut an imposing figure. Despite the state of his house, no one would dare to speak ill of him when he was present. He was a tall man with broad shoulders and a complexion that was somewhere between Shiera's hue and her brother's. His locks were a darker color than was usual of his Valyrian descent, being golden, though with a somewhat pale tinge, sitting upon his head in sculpted curls like Maegor's. Her mother had said that his waist was less trim than it had been during the early years of their marriage, but nevertheless, he was still strong and fit. 

"I have received news from Dorne," he told her. "You are to go to the court of Prince Doran Martell of Dorne and serve as a lady for his younger sister, Princess Elia Martell. She is three years older than you."

"Me, Father?" Shiera stared at him in bewilderment. She saw no reason why she had been selected as a lady to serve Princess Elia. Surely there were other girls who would kill for her place, girls living closer to Dorne with more influential families than her own? "How..."

"I put in a few good words for you," was his simple reply.

Shiera had no inkling as to how her father had achieved that. Perhaps he had used the small task force of spies in his employ. Perhaps he had requested his wife, Shiera's mother, to make use of her skill in the dark arts. Regardless, she shuddered at her father's underhandedness, though out of respect or fear or both, she was unsure. 

 "It took considerable effort," Father continued, turning back to his desk to observe his paperwork. "Make sure that you do not fail."

Shiera studied him, slightly perplexed by his words. "Fail?" she echoed. "At serving Princess Elia?" 

"That, and more," came the cryptic reply. When it was obvious that Shiera's confusion had not been abated - not that, Shiera suspected, he meant for his answer to help in that regard - he graciously added, "You will find out. It will be to our advantage."

 _It might be more to our advantage if you sent me to Dorne aware of what I am getting myself into, have you thought of that, my lord father?_ Shiera thought testily. She said nothing out loud, however, knowing it was foolhardy to speak so disrespectfully to Orion Cerdarthien. Instead, she asked, "When do I leave?" 

"In four moons."

Shiera hesitated. Four moons. She felt glad that it was so far away, or at least seemed to be so. But four moons! The more she thought about it, she felt a gaping hole open up inside her being. Only four moons until she would depart to a distant land to serve an unfamiliar woman. Who knew how long she would be Princess Elia's lady-in-waiting? She would have to leave Maegor. She would have to leave her mother. She thought she might even miss her father, as stifling as his influence was. She would have to leave her home in Lys, the only place she'd ever known. 

But what could she do? Her father desired it; Prince Doran Martell desired it. 

The hollowness in her yawned. Trying to ignore its gnawing, Shiera curtsied, not that Orion saw it, for his attention was still on the stack of papers piled on his desk. Swallowing with difficulty, she left her father. 

___

"What did Father want to see you for?"

She did not answer. She suddenly felt so distanced from her brother and everyone around her. She felt lonely and isolated, knowing that she was to be sent to live in a foreign land for at least several years. Nevertheless, she did not want Maegor to see her doubt and discontent with the arrangement. Feigning excitement, she announced, "I'm going to court!"

Maegor's jaw dropped; his dark purple eyes bored into her, not bothering to conceal his shock. "To court?" he echoed. "Who's court? What member of our family has been to another's court since Serenei?"

"None," Shiera responded, "but it appears I am to break that pattern. Father managed to arrange that I be a lady-in-waiting for Princess Elia Martell of Dorne."

"How? Our house is barely known in Westeros, if at all. We have little influence in Lys. With what magic did Father manage to convince Prince Doran to accept you as Princess Elia's lady-in-waiting?"

Shiera smiled, wondering if she was succeeding in hiding her distress. "It sounds as if you don't think me worthy," she teased him. 

"You know that is not the case," Maegor retorted. "I'm just in curiosity of the sorcery Father used."

 _I know you don't mean that seriously, but you may be quite close to the mark, Brother,_ Shiera thought, wondering if Father had really enlisted Mother's assistance. Her talents could be quite useful in such diplomatic maneuvers. Maegor didn't believe in sorcery, least of all that his own mother had a hand in it, but Shiera did. She'd seen Mother at work. Her dark arts fascinated her. She'd read all about them since a young age, but she had never managed to convince her mother to allow her to lend her the materials necessary for even the basics.

"As am I," she told him. "But I'm sure I can enjoy myself in Dorne. I hear it is the most liberal of the Seven Kingdoms. I could see some quite interesting things there."

"Will you not miss me?"

Shiera paused. Maegor was staring at her intently, knowingly. She knew in that instant that her faking was seen through. No one knew her quite as well as her older brother did. Shiera lowered her head, no longer trying to hide the disturbing emptiness she felt at the thought of leaving for Dorne. 

"I will," she whispered. "I'll miss you, and Mother."  _And Father, in a strange way,_ she added in her head. "The thought of living on foreign soil frightens me, Maegor." 

Her brother said nothing. Shiera suspected that he understood nothing he said would make her feel better. It was a wonder they were not twins sometimes; they understood each other well. Maegor simply reached over and squeezed her hand in his larger one. His fingers were warm, she found some level of comfort in them.

Shiera didn't know how much time had passed when Maegor whispered something. She had to strain to hear him.

"You will be fine," he said. "Our house is not known, but you are still the blood of Old Valyria." 

___

"Look at this, my sweet," her mother, summoning Shiera to her chambers, instructed. Shiera sat on a stool next to her mother and gazed at what Aelyra Cerdarthien was gesturing towards. It was a large, leather-bound book with a thickness that equaled the width of a broadsword. Next to it were several vials, bottles, and odd-looking candles. Shiera's purple eyes widened as she beheld them. This could not possibly be...

"All known spells, potions, incantations, and such, of Old Valyria are recorded here," her mother told her, "as are all the materials necessary, the quantity of those materials, the circumstances required, and the like."

"But what of you, Mother?" Shiera asked. "Surely this book is of use to you as well?"

Aelyra smiled. "Daughter, you underestimate your mother," she said in a playfully chiding voice. "I have practiced all the arts in that book since a young age. They are second nature to me now."

"And why give them to me?"

"Because you are my daughter," was the response - as if Shiera did not know that already, as if it was meant to help her feel less confused. Her mother put an arm around the eleven-year-old girl and drew her close. "Our house has practiced this magic for decades and centuries. We must pass it on. I believe it will remind you of who you are when you are in Dorne."

 _Who I am?_ Shiera was confounded. How would this book of spells and these concoctions help her remember who she was? Oh, she would be eager to experiment, no doubt. Eager was an understatement - excitement was coursing through her veins. But still, they had nothing to do with her identity. 

"You are the blood of Old Valyria," her mother continued in her lilting voice. "Look upon those spells, and remember. It is who you are. And now, sweetling," her mother stood and patted the stool of her vanity, "sit. I wish to braid your hair."

Shiera obeyed Aelyra, relaxing at her gentle, slender fingers threading through her curled, silver-gold locks. Her mother had not braided her hair in several moons. It felt like forever, and at that moment, she was glad for it. It felt as if she was experiencing the first time her mother had braided her tresses. 

_Remember who you are._

_The blood of Old Valyria._ She had always been raised to be proud of that lineage, but Shiera had to wonder. She may have been the blood of Old Valyria, as she heard time and time and time again, but was it really something to be so prideful on? Must she define herself and her worth solely on being the blood of dragonlords?

She would like to think not.

 


	2. Chapter 2

_**271 AC** _

"You undoubtedly have talent for this, my prince," Arthur complimented him as the two sparred back and forth with their practice swords, parrying and blocking and thrusting and slashing. Rhaegar deflected a blow from his friend. "Nonsense," he said breathlessly. "It was simply -" he sidestepped a thrust, "- a desire to learn -" he slashes at Arthur, who blocked it, "-after watching your performance."

They locked swords for a split second. Rhaegar waited for Arthur to quickly disentangle their blades, as he always did, but his friend twisted his wrist, and his sword along with it, in a peculiar fashion that Rhaegar had never before seen. In his hand, it felt as if his own sword was being forced from his grip. In a second, it lay among the grass, and Arthur was holding his practice sword to Rhaegar's throat. 

"I yield," Rhaegar commented jokingly, holding up his hands to play along. Arthur flashed him an amused smile before lowering the wooden blade to his side. 

"So what was this performance of mine that you speak of, my prince?" Arthur questioned.

Rhaegar smiled softly, "No doubt your memory of it has been lost among your countless performances. It was a year ago, Arthur. You had trained with the sword for no more than seven moons when you defeated a squire that had been training for nearly two years."

"And that was your inspiration, my prince?"

"It was. I was struck by how quickly you had progressed," Rhaegar affirmed. He left out the fact that his father had urged him to take up the sword after seeing how impressed he had been with his friend. He had initially been resistant, but Aerys had demanded it, reminding him that he was to be the future king of the kingdoms. Thus, like a dutiful son, Rhaegar had taken to the sword. 

His tutelage had been grudging as his interest was preoccupied with what he truly relished spending his time around - books, scrolls, and instruments - but three moons in, his determination to learn to wield a blade spiked dramatically, much to the bewildered delight of his master-at-arms. 

Rhaegar had never informed anyone of the reason for his sudden change of heart, not even Arthur. 

He had been devouring the texts of the old as he always did. He had always felt a fondness for such ancient topics. That day, he had been in Summerhall, reveling in or feeling sorrow for - he did not know which; perhaps it was both - the melancholy that saturated the ashes and ruins. Rhaegar had ever felt a connection to the remnants of Summerhall, for, no matter what great tragedy had occurred there, it was yet his place of birth. The melancholy felt as if it were a part of him. He had strummed his harp, listening in wordless silence to the chords echoing about the stones. 

After he had finished his song, he had set his harp down and opened his chosen book for the day. Rhaegar had been reading for a little over an hour when he had come across _the_ words. 

_"His is a song of ice and fire."_

Before he had returned to Dragonstone that day, he had resolved to dedicate all of himself to mastering the sword. At Summerhall, he had learned that he must. There was no choice. There never had been for him. 

He came to not quite despising learning how to wield a blade, but he did still indeed dislike that it required him to spend less time with his books, his poems, and his harp. He much preferred them to swordplay.  _Why do men love blades so?_ he oft found himself wondering.  _They are tools of destruction and blood, violence and death. And yet ballads are sung of the glories of war, the nobility of taking lives._

He wondered if he ought to express his thoughts to his best friend.

"You must be struck at yourself as well, then," Arthur responded, oblivious to Rhaegar's thoughts. "Your skill with the sword is rising rapidly. It is clear that you have a gift for it."

"Perhaps," Rhaegar conceded. He wasn't sure. He did not love the sword; was it possible to have a gift for something you did not love? "If I have a gift for swordplay, however, it must hold not a candle to your own prowess, Arthur."

"Nonsense, my prince, you flatter me too much," Arthur chided. "I am not telling you this just to be a dutiful friend to Your Highness. You are truly too modest in your talents; you have a great aptitude." 

Rhaegar listened to his friend. Arthur was not a liar.  _So I am talented at swordplay,_ he mused.  _Does that mean that I am also talented at killing?_ It was a rather macabre thought, and not one that most people would have, but one that he could not hold back. From a young age, he had been pessimistic and quite melancholy in nature. 

He had no desire to be back here, in the Red Keep. Supposedly his father had called for him, but he had not been summoned as of yet. Rhaegar wondered if his father was forgetting that he was even present. Whispers said that Aerys was becoming increasingly unstable. Rhaegar believed it, if the way his mother had been confined, after several miscarriages and premature births, to Maegor's Holdfast, out of Aerys' suspicion of infidelity was any indication.

His mother.

His only comfort was that he was able to see his mother, whom he planned on visiting soon. He and Rhaella were not particularly close; however, she was still his mother. She still cherished him, and he longed to lay his own eyes on her to confirm that his father had not harmed her in any way. 

"Prince Rhaegar?"

Rhaegar, turning his sparring sword idly in his hand, turned his head towards the source of the voice. It was one of the maids of the Red Keep. His indigo eyes narrowed suspiciously at her questionable appearance. The maid was certainly attractive. She had long, light brown hair, pale green eyes, and fair skin, and, although clad in a simple gray dress, her figure was voluptuous. What aroused Rhaegar's suspicion, however, was not her prettiness, but rather that her hair was clearly hastily tied, her cheeks red and flushed, and her dress laced incorrectly. Her lips were slightly bruised. 

She curtsied, bowing her head deeply, and as she did, Rhaegar could make out strange, fresh marks on the juncture between her neck and her shoulder. They looked to have been made by...teeth?

"His Grace -" Rhaegar was sure that he haad not imagined the slight shake of her voice when she mentioned his father "- has summoned you, Your Highness." As she gazed at him, he could make out barely concealed guilt and shame in her features.

It did not take a spectacular mind to reason what the issue was. His father had had many affairs, most short-lived; this poor servant girl must have been one of them. Rhaegar doubted it was by her choice. All quivered in fear of his father and his steadily increasing madness. 

He could not help feel angry, disappointed, sad, and frustrated all at once. His father did not love any of these women that he took. It was simply carnal pleasure. Was Rhaella not enough? How could he consider bringing such humiliation upon his sister and wife? 

Yet, the more despondent side of Rhaegar told him, morose, that it was simply the way his father was; simply the way all men were. They all have needs, he had been told, and a part of him had reluctantly accepted it as normal. 

"Thank you," Rhaegar responded. "I will go at once. I presume he is in his chambers?"

"No, my prince," the maid said, still a little abashed. Rhaegar could not help feeling sympathetic. "He is in the throne room."

Rhaegar frowned ever-so-slightly. For what reason could his father be wanting to meet him in the throne room, as opposed to the privacy of his own chambers. He could imagine a great multitude, and none of them were particularly pleasant. Even so, he had no choice in the matter. His father's word was law.

"I understand," he told the maid.

___

The guard standing at his father's door raised his armored hand and knocked. In the quiet hall, the sound echoed eerily. Rhaegar could not help thinking that it was much like the state of his father's mind. Everything Aerys heard echoed and came back to him, but processed in a peculiar way that took the original statement completely out of context - warped and twisted and distorted. 

He wondered if he was the only one to draw connections between hallways and the psyche of his father. Perhaps he was. Perhaps it made him as mad as Aerys, in a way.

"Who is it?" Rhaegar's hackles rose at the voice inside the room. It contained a slight rasp, and in those three words, there seemed to be contained a barely restrained fury, fear, and paranoia. His father had spoken in his normal, conversational tone, and yet it was as unsettling as if he had shouted. 

_"The Targaryens have always danced too close to madness."_

_"When a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin."_

Rhaegar had never been certain if he believed such rumors and myths or not. In that moment, however, he felt that they might be true. 

Would he become like his father one day? He had no desire to become Aerys II, who had imprisoned his own wife and sister out of distrust, who had begun to refuse to eat any foods not personally checked by a taster of his own choosing. He saw the plights of the smallfolk, their burdens. It had been his wish since a young age to help relieve those burdens, and he certainly could not do so if he became anything like his father.

 "The prince is here, Your Grace," the guard called out.

"Bring him in!" Aerys barked. "But first, ensure that he has no weapons, poisons, or anything of the kind." 

Rhaegar saw the guard visibly blanch at the king's order. He understood. It was preposterous for a king to order a guard to search the crown prince for anything potentially harmful. He could all but see the confusion seeping into the guard, yet he did not give comment. The guard simply turned to him, whispering a, "Forgive me, my prince."  

Rhaegar smiled in response. His intention was for it to be reassuring, but he suspected the guard could see the sadness on his visage. Of course, if he did, he said nothing and did as Aerys commanded, searching Rhaegar for anything. Once the guard had completed his search, he called, "The prince has nothing dangerous, Your Grace. He is entering."

Aerys did not respond. Taking it as a consent, the guard stepped aside. Rhaegar pushed open the doors to his father's chambers and entered.

The room was dimly lit, with the flickering light of candles causing menacing shadows to dance across the walls. What gave Rhaegar pause, however, was the figure of his father, crouched like some kind of vermin on his bed. As he approached, Aerys turned to face him. In the scarce light, his father's face was frightening, appearing warped and distorted. 

Rhaegar recalled the whispers he had been hearing of late. They spoke of his father's declining mental health, of his strange habits, and his unexplainable, random actions.  _The Mad King,_ they said.  _He is the Mad King, a ruler whose curse on this land will rival Aegon the Unworthy._

He had attempted to convince himself that no such thing would happen. Rhaella had oft told him stories of Aerys when he was a child. His mother said that his father had been "undeniably charming" and had offered her tender comfort when faced with her first several miscarriages.  _I never loved him,_ she had said,  _but your father is worth caring for, Rhaegar. Remember that. Remember how he once was._

And Rhaegar did remember. He remembered the days of his early childhood, wherein he had carelessly run up to his father, in the middle of a Small Council meeting, in excitement that his mother had acquired him a new book or anything else of the sort. Aerys would chuckle and scoop his son into his arms, indulging him despite the presence of his council. 

Rhaegar realized only now that he had been using those recollections to keep his fear at bay. He had continued telling himself that his father would return to the man that he had once been, that his decline was only a temporary stage. He did not know if he had ever believed it, but he had never believed it less than he did now, faced with his father staring at him motionlessly, hawkishly, like an injured animal would a potential threat. 

Could his father truly ever return? 

"Come closer. Don't leave an old man to shout across his chambers," Aerys rasped. Rhaegar stepped forward. He battled his own instinct to draw away from this coiled, unnaturally vigilant man in front of him. He did not know how he managed to keep his face from betraying him.

 "Tell me," his father said as Rhaegar halted, leaving a distance of roughly a sword's length between the bedframe and himself. "Have you found a suitable womb?" 

Aerys' bluntness startled him, striking him dumb for a few seconds. Had he found a  _womb_? Was Aerys jesting, or had his wits gone faster than anyone had realized? Or, even worse, Rhaegar wondered, was he truly being serious? Had his father forgotten that he was a mere ten-and-two years of age, not yet old enough to sire children? He was, doubtless, approaching the age in which the crown prince was expected to be engaged; however, it was still too early. 

And what could Aerys be insinuating by a "suitable" womb? Rhagar was well aware that his father desired that he be wed to a sister, but he had no sisters to speak of. Yet, finding a "suitable" womb implied to Rhaegar that his father yet wished for a woman, who, if not his sister, was at the very least of Valyrian descent.

In Westeros, the only noblewomen with the blood of Old Valyria were of House Martell, courtesy of Princess Daenerys Targaryen's wedding to Prince Maron Martell centuries ago. However, Rhaegar was highly skeptical of his father approving of a Martell woman as his bride. When Steffon Baratheon had, but a few moons ago, suggested for Princess Elia to be betrothed to him in response to Aerys' desire for a woman with the blood of Valyria, his father had vehemently refused the idea.

 _"Pretenders,"_ his father had raved, much to the shock of everyone present. _"Their Valyrian blood is but a droplet! Weak! They cannot bear the seed of House Targaryen. No, we must have a fully Valyrian wench, with silver hair and purple eyes, to bear Rhaegar's heirs! I will accept nothing less! I will ensure that the blood of Old Valyria sits on the Iron Throne for the rest of time!"_

 "Father," Rhaegar stated calmly. "You must understand that there are no maidens of strong Valyrian descent in Westeros. I understand your wish that I wed the blood of Old Valyria, but that is not possible."

"I will make it possible," his father said with surprising calm. Rhaegar was not sure what was more unnerving - the mad rages that Aerys was said to fly into as of late, or his eerie serenity. Perhaps both. Perhaps it was the fact that he was capable of both that was truly agitating.

"Believe you me, my son," Aerys continued, confident. "I will retrieve a proper bride for you." 

Refutations of his father's statement swam in Rhaegar's head. Aerys' hopes were foolish. House Targaryen was the only house in Westeros with strong ancestral connections to Valyria, and nothing else would satisfy his father. Yet Rhaegar had no sisters, and he was now ten-and-two years old. Even if his mother did bear his father a female child, the notion of wedding a girl, his sister, no less, ten-and-two years younger than him was distasteful. It would be so simple to object.

 _But,_ Rhaegar thought sorrowfully,  _Alas, I have never been particularly determined._

"As you say, Father." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rhaegar is quite the depressing young man, isn't he? Of course, that's natural since he was always described to be "melancholy" on all accounts of him. Personally, though, I don't believe that Rhaegar was emo all the time, as some people I know do - I think that he simply had an innate sadness of character. I don't believe that's necessarily a bad thing, either. 
> 
> I hope all of you think my portrayal of Rhaegar is decent. Oh, and thank you for reading. This is my first serious ASoIaF story, so I'm eager to continue building it.


	3. Chapter 3

His mother smiled gently at him. Gazing at Rhaella, the little protective instinct in Rhaegar stirred. He was not close to either of his parents, but his mother had always seemed so fragile, so delicate. He had heard of her several miscarriages preceding his birth, and, even worse, the whispers of his father's treatment of her. It was telling enough that Rhaella was locked in Maegor's Holdfast because of Aerys' suspicions of infidelity, but as of late Rhaegar had heard that Aerys could be heard screaming with fury during the few times he visited his wife. 

"Mother," he greeted softly, closing the door to her chambers behind him. 

Rhaella Targaryen was a beautiful woman, but the horrors of her life had dulled her loveliness. It was plain to see that she was not treated with the luxury that one would expect a queen to be entitled to. Although she did not appear, to Rhaegar's relief, malnourished in any way, her long hair was unbound and uncombed, and her dress was plain. Her pale purple eyes were dull and yet seemed to dance with sorrow. 

Rhaella rose and embraced her son. Rhaegar allowed himself to close his eyes as his mother's warmth enveloped him. Her scent was familiar, and distinctly  _hers_ ; his familial connection to her told him so, though he had no factual evidence. 

"You have grown so tall and strong since I have last seen you, Rhaegar," she commented with a smile. Pride flashed in her normally mild gaze. Rhaegar could not help feeling the sorrow that was ever-present in his chest deepen. He did not feel that he was a son she could take pride in. He could not even do anything to assist her in the humiliating position his father had placed her in, although she was perhaps the dearest person to him.

 _What a jape the gods make of us,_ he thought.  _My mother is dearest to me in this world and yet I do not know her at all._

"How are you, Mother?" Rhaegar inquired. "Are you in good health?"

"I am," she responded. "As for you, my son, I hear that your prowess with a sword increases day by day. Your talent for arms is irrefutable, it seems. That is a good sign; it will lend you the people's support." 

Rhaegar was aware. He had heard the story of Aenys and Maegor Targaryen, half-brother sons of Aegon the Conqueror. Though Aenys had been the eldest, there were those who had declared that Maegor was more fit to be king. The future tyrant had had an unquestionable talent for battle. It made him appear strong in the eyes of the people, and yet Rhaegar was not sure. Had Maegor the Cruel been strong? 

"I do not like combat, Mother," he confessed, feeling that she was the only one whom he could speak of this to. His father certainly would dismiss his sentiments, and Rhaegar was sure Arthur would think it suspicious to say such a thing when he claimed that his inspiration in learning the sword had been Arthur himself. 

Rhaella took his hands in her own. "Oh, my son," she said, "I was already aware of that." At her words, Rhaegar searched her face, not concealing his puzzlement. 

"I see that you are carrying a great burden," his mother continued, tucking a strand of stray silver-gold hair behind his ear. "I will not ask what it is, Rhaegar. As much as it grieves me to admit this, you and I are not close, and I do not think you would be comfortable sharing such information with me. But always remember this, Rhaegar." Sensing that his mother wanted them to see eye-to-eye, Rhaegar lifted his gaze to hers. For the first time in his short life, he realized that Rhaella's stare was poignant and intense. He could not look away. 

"I am your mother. And should you ever want a shoulder to lean on, I am here." 

Rhaegar was silent, but it was not because of indifference. He was dumbfounded at Rhaella's sudden behavior. She had always seemed to him so frail, but perhaps, he thought, his mother had more steel in her than he had given her credit for. Perhaps it had been he who was foolish for thinking her brittle. It took strength, a quiet and steady and everlasting strength, to endure what her husband had done to her with such dignity as his mother. 

He closed his eyes as she raised her lips to his forehead and pressed a kiss against the skin there. 

"Thank you, Mother."  

* * *

_The Dornish are a fascinating folk._

That was what Shiera had concluded upon studying their culture. After her conversation with her mother and receiving the book of spells, potions, and magic, she had resolved to acquaint herself with Dornish tradition so she would not be completely clueless when she arrived to serve Princess Elia. She had found herself a book on Dorne and had immersed herself.

It had been intriguing, to say the least.

In some ways, Dorne was much the same as Lys. Whilst Shiera had acquainted herself with the customs of the rest of Westeros at a young age - she had always been interested in differing cultures - she had never familiarized herself with Dorne until now. All that she had previously been aware of was that it differed much from the other peoples of Westeros, and now she could truly put into perspective how valid that statement was.

Whereas Shiera had found the customs of Westeros to be stifling, Dorne seemed liberal to an almost extremely point. Polygamy seen as not at all unusual and bastards not ostracized for their birth out of wedlock! Shiera did not approve of polygamy, but she felt glad that bastards were not stigmatized in Dornish culture. It was not their fault - however, if bastards were not looked down upon in Dorne, did that not mean that the Dornish were unruffled by what was essentially adultery? Did they even consider it as such?

And of course, in Dorne, bisexuality was readily accepted. That pleased Shiera. It was the same in Lys - no one blinked an eye at a woman coupling with a woman, or a man coupling with a man. To her and the rest of Lys, even to her strict father, it was as natural to be attracted to the same gender as it was to be attracted to the other - humans did not choose their leanings, after all, so why should they be ostracized for it?

The Dornish were apparently known for their hot-blooded nature and sexual appetite. Regardless of the appeal that Dorne held, it unsettled her a bit to be going amongst such people. Moreover, her pale skin, her silver-gold hair, her purple eyes - they were all sure to draw quite a lot of attention in the midst of the pleasantly olive-skinned, ebony-haired Dornish. Still, Shiera felt surer of herself now than she had before. At least she was somewhat familiar with the land of Dorne. 

She wondered what Princess Elia would be like. Shiera was no stranger to the term "the vipers of House Martell", but she doubted it ran in all Martells. Would the princess she served be one such viper? 

Behind her, the door to Shiera's room opened. She turned to see the towering figure of her father step in, closing the door behind him. As she was taught, she rose to her feet and curtsied. "My lord." 

"Shiera," her father greeted, approaching and taking a seat on her bed. There was an unconcealed approval in his eyes as he looked at her. "Even your curtsy is exceedingly graceful," he commented. He had been doing this as of late, showering her with praise for everything she did correctly. "Then again, you were born with a naturally regal bearing. Prince Doran - and others - will approve greatly." 

 _He will not stop speaking of these people whom he will not identify,_ Shiera noted testily. She had begun to suspect that her father had some other motive for putting her in Princess Elia's service. But she knew better than to ask - her father was not a man who liked to reveal his plans.

"Father," she said instead. "What do you know of Princess Elia?"

Her question seemed to amuse him.

"Why do you want to know that, daughter?" he asked. 

"I assume it is a valid concern," Shiera retorted. "I will be one of her ladies-in-waiting. I will be in her constant presence. I would like to know the kind of person she is if I am to be serving her." 

"Good," was her father's response, although Shiera was clueless as to why he said such. 'Good'? What was 'good'? Her desire to know the girl she would be attending to? 

"From what I have heard of Princess Elia," Orion spoke, "is that she is of fragile health. Her mother delivered her prematurely, you see. She was not expected to survive, but she did regardless."

Oh. A pang of sympathy struck Shiera. The world was difficult as it was. To be born with a weak constitution did not help. She wondered if Princess Elia had ever received pity for her physical state, and pitied the older girl for it. To receive pity was embarrassing, more so if the thing you were pitied for was beyond your control. And was she not doing the same thing to Elia? She felt sorry for pitying her, but she could not help it.

"However, she is doing quite well for herself," her father continued. "I hear that she is clever, gentle, and kind, and well-loved by the people of Dorne."

Was that the case? Then it would be a relief, both for Shiera and for Princess Elia herself. Shiera would not mind being in the service of the Dornish princess, if only she was truly as the rumors said. 

"Does she not have a younger brother as well?" she asked, remembering what she had read about House Martell and its current members. "Prince Oberyn Martell?"

"Ah, yes, Prince Oberyn." Her father seemed strangely amused at the thought of Princess Elia's younger brother. "He is already showing signs of being a great warrior, I have heard. Much unlike his sister in temperament."

"How so?" Shiera questioned. "Is he not gentle as she is?"

"Not in the least," Father responded. "I hear he is the very standard of a Dornishman. Hot-blooded, temperamental, passionate...and at his young age of three-and-ten, he is quite flirtatious with the women around him. I am certain that his physical relations will begin in but a few years."

Shiera stared at her father. It was not unusual for him to be aware of Prince Oberyn's character, but going as far as to declare that he would begin laying with women in a few years? Was it mere deductive reasoning, taking Prince Oberyn's flirting into consideration? And yet her father had said he was certain. 

Orion must have detected the confusion and suspicion in her eyes. His stoic face darkened into a small, secretive smile that made Shiera's skin crawl. "I heard from your mother," was all that he said, and it was more than enough to confirm what she had been thinking.

Father had been turning to Mother's sorcery. 

"But that is not for your concern, Shiera," her father said, breaking her petrified trance. He reached over a tucked a strand of her silver-gold hair behind her ear. "You must focus on serving Princess Elia well and making a favorable impression of yourself. After all, you are House Cerdarthien's representative in Westeros now. Remember that." 

 _Such encouragement you provide me with, Father,_ Shiera thought bitterly.  _How gracious of you to inform me that should I disappoint in Dorne, I will return a hostile household to comfort myself in!_

Then again, she should not be surprised. It had ever been this way with her father. He was showing more affection to her in these past months, since she had been selected to serve Princess Elia, than he ever had before. She was his darling child - only as long as she was useful to him and House Cerdarthien. 

"Yes, father," she replied meekly.

"Good. Now, Shiera, I would like you to do something for your father," Father told her. Shiera's eyebrows arched in confusion. Do something for him? What did he mean? It was late at night, there were no errands to be run. 

Orion gestured to the harp sitting at the corner of Shiera's room. She had enjoyed music and instruments since a young age, and often found relaxation in playing. But the fact that her father bothered paying any attention for the first time meant, she realized with a sinking feeling, that he intended to weaponize even that. 

"I want to hear your skill firsthand. You have always loved playing instruments, have you not?" He gazed at her, almost calculatingly. "Play for me, Shiera." 

And it was not as if she could simply tell him 'no' and request that he leave her chambers. He was her father. She must listen to and obey him. So Shiera rose from her bed, fetched her harp, and sat down on her vanity chair, setting the harp in front of her. She had never before played for her father, and he was a harsh judge. She doubted now would be any different. But how could he judge, she wondered, if he did not know what masterful playing sounded like? Between the two of them, it was she who had more knowledge.

The realization was utterly bizarre. She, Shiera, had more knowledge in this matter than her father. At the very least, it lessened the nervousness yawning in her stomach. 

"What should I play?" she asked. Father waved his hand. 

"Anything, I do not care." 

With that in mind, Shiera decided to forget all inhibition. Her father clearly did not care for her playing, he simply considered it another skill that might garner attention and approval during her time at court. Choosing a song that she had learned years ago, but that remained one of her favorites, and strummed the strings with her fingers and [played](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ClzSlz5ZjTU) for him.

When she finished, her father was nodding his head in approval, but Shiera did not feel proud. He was not approving because of his appreciation for the music, or even because of her ability to play. He was nodding because he saw that the music and her ability would be beneficial to him. Was that all he ever cared for? Advantage? Benefit? Tools? 

"You play very well," Father noted. "Ensure that you make your skill known at court. It will help you." _It will help House Cerdarthien,_ he meant. 

"Now rest," Orion ordered. "Tomorrow I will test your ability to play the flute."  _And if it will be of any advantage to our house._

He stood and left the room. No 'goodnight'. No 'sleep well'. Not even a smile. It had always been like this with her father.  

Shiera glanced outside her window. The moon was high in the sky. It was a cloudy night, and its silvery beams were murky and barely penetrated the smoky haze. Her fear at the thought of leaving for Dorne had settled over these last few moons, but her apprehension remained.

She remembered what both her mother and her brother had told her.  _You are the blood of Old Valyria._ She could not help comparing herself to the moon, and the clouds to her heritage. The moon could just barely be seen behind the clouds, just as, it seemed, she, Shiera Cerdarthien, could barely be seen behind her heritage. They did not tell her to remind herself that she was Shiera Cerdarthien, they only told her to remember herself as the blood of Old Valyria. As if that was all she was. All she could ever be. 

She then turned to stare at her reflection in the mirror. Was the blood of Old Valyria all that stared back at her? The reflection certainly looked the part. The dragonlords of Old Valyria had been beautiful; Shiera had oft been told that she would be the most beautiful woman to look upon when she was a woman grown. Her looks were praised heavily, as was expected from the blood of Old Valyria. Like the dragonlords of ancient tales, her hair was silver-gold, long, and lustrous, traveling down her back in silken waves. Her skin was flawless, and pale, and soft. Her eyes were large, glimmering, flashing in the light as if they were made of freshly polished glass, and  _purple._ Of course, purple. 

She thought briefly of the House Targaryen of Westeros. The blood of Old Valyria they were also. Westeros' crown prince, Rhaegar Targaryen - her thoughts turned to him for the first time. She had never bothered thinking much of a man she would have nothing to do with, but she wondered if he ever thought the same. Was he told countless times that he was the blood of Old Valyria? Did he wonder, as she did, if he would ever have more worth than that label? 

Shiera dismissed the notion. Rhaegar Targaryen was the heir of a powerful family and the crown prince of a powerful kingdom. Even if they were alike in any way, she knew, it mattered not. He was a man that she would never set eyes on as long as they both lived. 

Besides, Shiera knew, she could not afford to waste time thinking about others. If she made a bad name for herself in Dorne, she made a bad name for House Cerdarthien. And her father would not tolerate that. 

 


	4. Chapter 4

She was finally off.

Shiera's departure from her family's keep had not been an organized one. Her father had roused her early in the morning, when the sun had barely begun to emerge over the horizon and pierce the darkness with its rays. He had declared it his intention to test her musical skills once more, claiming that he must ensure she was simply perfect for her departure.

And so, bleary-eyed and exhausted, for she had lain awake for several hours into the previous night, Shiera had performed for him with her harp, her zither, and her flute. After the unexpected concert, Father had bid her to eat her breakfast, then bathe and dress, and ensure she had everything necessary, including her three instruments, her [sword](https://aa1a5178aef33568e9c4-a77ea51e8d8892c1eb8348eb6b3663f6.ssl.cf5.rackcdn.com/p/full/UCL10079_i.jpg), her [knife](https://exquisiteknives.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/04/005-1.jpg), her sewing materials, several outfits, and, for leisure time, a few books.

Her language tutor, Irene Esiel, had passed by to make sure, as well, that she had packed her dictionaries - one for each language, for Father had made it clear that he expected her to continue her studies in language, swordplay, and music, during her time in Dorne. Because of this, her father had declared, Irene, as well as Shiera's swordmaster (that was what Father called her, although in Shiera's opinion her "swordmaster" qualified more as an instructor in several forms of combat), Nesta Rosyre, and the bard who taught her how to play, Daemon, would be accompanying her to Dorne. Daemon had never revealed his surname to her and had dismissed her curiosity when she was younger. Shiera had been left to assume that there was something about his family that he did not want to think about or discuss. If Father and Mother knew, they did not speak of it.

Shiera had no need for dictionaries of the Common Tongue and her own natural Lysene tongue, for she spoke those languages fluently, but Irene had personally checked for herself that her dictionaries for the various other dialects of Low Valyrian, as well as her dictionary for High Valyrian, had been stored securely in her trunks. Shiera spoke High Valyrian decently and could maintain a conversation, but was not quite fluent yet, much to Father's disapproval. She so far managed in the Braavosi dialect of Valyrian, but had little to no knowledge of any dialects spoken by the other Free Cities (save for Lys, of course). 

Scarcely a minute after Irene had left and she had fitted herself into her [dress](https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0246/7229/products/Untitled-1_9bdc08a2-8a29-442e-8dd0-ed9d2f408821.jpg?v=1482374474) - Father had mercifully decided to allow her to dress quite plainly for the voyage - Mother called her, for it was time for her to board the ship and leave for Dorne.

She had thought the day she was to leave she would be a like a nervous mouse, whimpering to herself, but Shiera found that so hectic was the day that she had no time to lose composure. The hour passed in a frenzied blur and she found herself standing at the dock, her father and mother and brother behind her to see off her departure.

Her departure. The thought crashed down on her and nearly caused her knees to buckle, but before she could fathom what emotions exactly she was feeling, or have time to express them by collapsing or swooning, her father was speaking to her.

"Remember what a historical moment this is for our house," he told her. "You will be the face and voice of House Cerdarthien. Conduct yourself with all the grace, courtesy, elegance, and charm that you have been taught. Anything less is unacceptable for our future." 

"Yes, Father," was all that Shiera could muster, for she feared she might break into fits of hysterical laughter if she said anything more. For the love of the shadowy gods of Old Valyria! Was it so difficult to bring his mind away from the benefits that her travels to Dorne could mean for their house? Was it such an impressive feat to see one's daughter as one's daughter instead of a tool? Was it so hard to simply wish her well and reassure her and comfort her? 

Next was her mother, who smiled and took her hands. "Keep the book I have given you always," Mother told her. "When you are lonely, open it, and read it, and think of who you are. You are the blood of Old Valyria, never forget it. You are untainted by the mortal blood that flows in the veins of Westeros. Even House Targaryen is intermingled with the blood of others, but we - House Cerdarthien, we are pure. The gods of Valyria have been on our side always - every man of our line was blessed with a sister of equally prodigious pedigree. Just as your father and I are, even today." 

Again with the blood of Old Valyria. Shiera was not sure whether to cry or sigh at her mother. She had always been gentle and kind to her, but Shiera wondered if her mother had ever seen her as anything aside from _the blood of Old Valyria._  Or was her mother correct? Was that, perhaps, all that she was? 

Nevertheless, her mother was far gentler and far more familial than her father had ever been, so Shiera thanked her genuinely, with a grateful, if weak, smile. 

Behind Mother was her brother, Maegor. Shiera knew that, beyond a doubt, it was he whom she would miss most. Maegor was, by far, the most real presence in her life. Her father was but a shadow of a father, forever calculating how best to use his children to his own ends. Her mother called her 'the blood of Old Valyria' more often than she called her 'Shiera'. 

Maegor, at the least, called her 'Shiera', and 'sister', and 'little sister'. 

"Little sister," Maegor said now. His use of that title of her had never been in a mocking way. He was always affectionate, not condescending, in calling her 'little sister', his voice full of warmth. The realization that she would not hear his fond title for her caused a wave of emotion to wash over Shiera. How could she possibly go for years without Maegor? They had never been apart in their lives. 

"You will be marvelous," Maegor assured her, placing a hand on her head and mussing her silver-gold hair. Shiera was vaguely aware of the disapproving look that their father threw at Maegor - he probably wanted her to look impeccable - but it was quickly lost as the lump in her throat, which had before been reasonable to handle, began to hamper her breathing. It took all of her willpower not to cry.

"Shiera," her brother urged her, looking her firmly in the eyes, "you are intelligent, capable, and beautiful. There will be no one in Dorne not taken with you. Have faith in yourself."

Shiera, with a start, realized that Maegor's dark purple eyes were tearful. He was crying. He was crying, he was upset over her departure, and here she was, adding to his troubles and making him worried by acting like a frightened little mouse! She was being too selfish, she thought. She must try to show anything akin to confidence, if only for Maegor's sake. 

"You are right," she said, though not certain if she was trying to convince herself or convince her brother. Intelligent? Was she? She certainly enjoyed and excelled in her lessons of history, poetry, songwriting, and such, but did that make her intelligent?

Capable? She could sew decently well, write poems or songs in her spare time as Father had demanded she learn, she could play the harp, the flute, and the zither, spoke the Common Tongue and her own Lysene tongue fluently, and had shown her talent for swordplay since the day she had begun learning it, for her mother and father both desired that she follow warrior queen Visenya's example in that regard. (For people who would never admit that they looked down on the Targaryens for intermingling with "lesser blood", they certainly tried to project many aspects of numerous Targaryens onto her.) 

She had many abilities (mostly thanks to her father's pushing for perfection), more so than considered normal, and one might say she was indeed gifted. But did any of them truly help her in her situation? Oh yes, she supposed some would find her eloquence attractive, or her musical abilities fascinating, though she doubted many would be pleased at her combat skills, for Westeros did not train women to fight. 

Beautiful? Well...she could not deny that. She  _was_ beautiful, though she was still young, and she saw no point in debating it. If anything, she thought it was rather annoying to be overly humble about one's looks. But -  _but._ Beauty was not sufficient. In fact, beauty could be detrimental. Shiera knew her father was prideful of her looks, but did he not consider the horrors that beautiful women suffered? Shiera was not blind to the difficulties of women in her male-dominated world, and she was leaving the relative safety of her family and her home. She had no desire of snaring unwanted attention from a lustful man. But if Orion was aware of this, he had never cared. 

Intelligent, capable, beautiful, her brother had described her. He had been intending to reassure her, Shiera had no doubt of that, but it was not much of a comfort. Nevertheless, she forced herself to smile with confidence, and was surprised to see that her reflection, visible in Maegor's eyes, appeared genuinely poised. Well. At the very least, she would not seem like a dithering half-wit. To her family, that was. She wasn't sure she could say the same about herself. 

"Time runs short." Her father's deep voice sliced through Shiera's complicated medley of thoughts. Yes, time ran short. She must go now. She wondered if she should say anything back to Maegor, but she was afraid that if she began, words would pour out of her mouth and she would be unable to stop them. So she simply nodded at him and turned towards the boat that was to take her to the ship, in the distance, that would take her to Dorne. The sails of that ship flapped majestically in the morning zephyr. Emblazoned in the fabric was the [sigil](https://i.etsystatic.com/11049281/c/943/749/281/368/il/f39426/1552290588/il_340x270.1552290588_tn16.jpg) of House Cerdarthien: two dragons circling each other, one ebony against a purple background, and one purple against an ebony background. It was an impressive sight, but one that she could not muster any joy in. 

Shiera stepped into the boat with two hollow thuds as both her feet made contact with the wooden floor. Every second seemed to last too long and yet speed by too quickly. This was it. She was leaving her family, leaving Lys, and headed into the unknown. Staring at the beautiful, blue ocean spread out before her as far as her eye could see, Shiera could not help thinking that in that moment, it seemed more like an abyss yawning and gaping its maw to swallow her whole. 

She sat, and the man who had been sitting on the boat, waiting for her to board, began to row. She briefly thought that she ought to turn and wave in farewell to her family, but she didn't think she could manage to do so without losing her composure. Shiera refused to let the last image in years that her father, mother, and brother would have of her in years to be one of her breaking down and crying. So she gazed stonily ahead at the horizon and did not look back. 

The boat reached the ornate ship, on which Irene, Nesta, and Daemon were awaiting her, having already boarded. Shiera felt a little apologetic that they had had to wait for her while she said her farewells to her family. She turned to her small retinue, still fighting back tears. It took a moment for her to compose herself. She was painfully aware that if she turned the wrong way, her family would be within her view, and she would make a fool out of herself. So she forced herself to focus only on the three people accompanying her. 

Nesta was a woman of nine-and-twenty years that could easily be described as 'pretty'. She had pleasant facial features, thin, finely shaped eyebrows, pale blue eyes, and was short and slender. Her hair was a shade of golden-brown and was often kept out of her face in a hasty bun, although tawny strands hung into her face and contrasted her pale skin. She was lean and well-muscled from training - but what training, Shiera often wondered.

When she had asked Father about it about a moon after Nesta's arrival (she had been six years old), he told her that Nesta used to be an assassin before coming under his employ. He said nothing more and had consequently left Shiera with a feeling of wariness around her newly-appointed swordmaster; however, Nesta was always friendly and kind enough to her, a good teacher over their years together, and patient. Shiera had grown rather fond of her. Father and Mother trusted her to teach their daughter combat skills, and this fact, coupled with Nesta's competency as a swordmaster and her amicable attitude towards Shiera led Shiera to trust her. 

For the voyage, Nesta wore a simple [tunic](https://www.bytheswordinc.com/images/product/medium/49-105101.jpg), [trousers](https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/510NE-rfK4L._UX385_.jpg), and [boots](https://i.pinimg.com/736x/fa/0f/46/fa0f46347feeb0137f8d95816d9973e4--medieval-boots-renaissance-festival-costumes.jpg), her hair arranged into its usual bun. Her [sword](http://wuujau.com/media/catalog/product/cache/1/image/650x/040ec09b1e35df139433887a97daa66f/k/-/k-2626_1_2.jpg) was at her hip, as well as her [daggers](https://www.swordsknivesanddaggers.com/swords/swords-elf-warrior-swords-fm-411-c.jpg). It was her usual attire; Father had offered her pretty dresses and eye-catching outfits, but Nesta had declined. Something to hide her nude body, and a sword and daggers at her hip, she had said, was all she required.

Irene was one-and-twenty years old, with creamy olive skin. She was tall and buxom, with large eyes, pleasantly arching dark eyebrows, and dark brown hair tied in a neat braid. She was rather plain, but Shiera had always believed her eyes were lovely. Large and framed with thick black eyelashes, Irene's eyes were a beautiful light hazel that appeared almost gold when caught in certain lights.

She had been brought under House Cerdarthien's wing when Shiera was four years old. At a mere four-and-ten years of age, her language tutor had been able to fluently speak all the Valyrian dialects of all the Free Cities of Essos, as well as High Valyrian. Mother told Shiera that Irene had been a slave in Yunkai whom Father had bought, then freed.

When she was six years old, old enough to understand the brutality that slaves suffered, but also old enough to understand the master's benefit in having slaves, Shiera had asked her father why he had freed Irene. Even at her young age, Father had never struck her to put morals before advantage, nor did he seem like a person to be concerned with commoners. Why, she had wondered, why had he paid the fee to buy Irene and promptly free her? Someone like Orion Cerdarthien? 

Her father had smiled, and ruffled her hair in a fatherly way; a way he so often neglected. He had seemed almost kind in that moment, yet his words had not been kind at all.

"Irene was brought to Yunkai barely a babe old enough to walk, Shiera. Now let us think for a moment. She has lived her entire life as a slave, owned by another who forces her to learn language after language, unhappy in her condition yet unable to escape, for even if she could bypass the soldiers, she would have naught else to do. She has no other place to call home aside from the city that holds her a slave, an object."

Shiera had nodded along to her father's words. She had never forgotten that conversation for the strange dread towards her father that had been blossoming in her gut as she listened to him speak. She had not, until she was eight years old, understood the reason for that dread.

"Then, a man comes along," Orion had continued. "A man who was the head of a noble house. He bought her, and she, with dread, prepared herself to find herself in yet another new city, at the mercy of yet another lot who treats her as less than human. But something unexpected happens. The man frees her. Then he brings her back to his house, offers her servants, her own room, her own bath, clothes, and food. She is at last treated like a human being. And she does not want to leave. Her loyalty to that man is secured."

Shiera had understood, and she had pitied Irene for it. When she was eight years old, old enough to understand why her father's words had invoked such utter terror in her, she had even tried to speak up about it to Irene, who by then was used to her, as Father paid her well to teach Shiera the languages she knew. 

Irene had dismissed her concern. It was no matter, she had said, she had nowhere else to go. Thus Shiera had come to understand Irene's position in the household. Had come to pity her, even, but she often wondered if she was right to pity the woman. Irene did not seem to be a person to appreciate pity, and besides, she seemed content enough. Orion was rather good to her. 

 _Of course he would be,_ Shiera thought,  _He is good to everyone except his children. But we are all tools in his eyes._

And Daemon. Daemon was the youngest of her three companions, a mere nine-and-ten years of age, and yet he was skilled; the best in court. It seemed to her that music was all he did in his leisure time. She would discover him sitting in the courtyard, seemingly not noticing the sun's beating rays, strumming his zither with practiced ease, or plucking the strings of his harp, or testing airy tunes with his flute at his lips. Shiera wondered what skill he must possess. He was already an innately gifted musician, and he spent the majority of his time practicing and playing, it seemed to her. 

Daemon had hair that was a striking hue - an extremely icy blonde that was practically white. Though flaxen hair was common in Lys, locks of such unnatural paleness were certainly not. It made for a startling contrast with his skin, a copper that was darkened from the hot sun ever present in Lys. His features were pleasant to look at, and slightly effeminate. He was not muscled, for he was not a warrior, but possessed a lean, wiry strength to his body that reminded her of the feral cats she often noticed stalking about the alleyways. He was tall.

He had arrived at court when she was seven years old - a thin, wan-looking boy of five-and-ten, eyes a striking shade of pale blue, gaze darting every-which-way. She remembered being fascinated by him. Why was he here? From his appearance and clothing he had been a street rat of sorts. Why had her father brought him to court? 

She had partially understood Orion's decision when she first heard him play. His skill had been breathtaking, even at that young age. Yet suspicion had almost immediately tickled her mind, clouding out that euphoria. A street rat? Then how, she had wondered, did he play so well? Clearly her father had desired his talent, but was Orion not wary also? But neither her father nor her mother had seemed concerned with Daemon, giving him leave to freely wander the keep and allowing him to play privately for her, and for Maegor. 

To this day, he did not know his story and her parents had always dismissed her when she expressed her curiosity, saying that it "was not for children's ears". Their answer, Shiera found, was quite unnerving. Could they not simply gloss over the terrible aspects and summarize his life before coming to the Cerdarthien court? Father had done it easily enough with Irene and her status as a slave. Why not for Daemon? Why not lie, even? Surely they knew how suspicious their answer sounded?

She remembered herself wondering if even Father and Mother did not know. But then, she had thought, why did they trust Daemon enough to leave him alone with Shiera? Why did they allow him to stay in court, and why did they allow him to teach her? Like Nesta and Irene, Daemon had never done anything to harm her, and her caution around him had gradually abated. He was still a distant man, but despite his aloofness, Shiera trusted him. He was a good teacher. 

She would much rather stay in Lys, but she knew Father would not hear of it. So if she must go - which she did - she was glad for their familiar presence. 

With that thought, Shiera realized, her fears had abated, if not by much. She felt calmer now. Steadier. Yes, she had Nesta, Irene, and Daemon at her side. They would keep her company. And one day, she reminded herself, one day, she would set sail again and return to Lys, to House Cerdarthien's keep, to laugh with her brother and speak with her mother and listen to her father. One day, she would lay in her own bed, in her own room.

Swallowing the threatening lump in her throat, forcing it away, Shiera turned towards the harbor. The ship had gone much further than she had realized, she noticed with a start, and her family in the distance now reminded her of the dolls she had played with in her childhood.

Seeing that she had faced them, Maegor raised his hand and waved. Shiera could no longer make out his expression well, although the dark purple of his eyes was visible. Next to her brother, she recognized her father's blue shade, matching the ocean, and her mother's lilac hues. 

Raising her hand, Shiera waved back. 

**~**

"My lady, it is late. Do you not want to retire to your cabin?" Nesta asked, bringing Shiera out of her reverie.

She had been staring out to sea. Shiera knew not how long they had been on the waters, but it felt as if it had been well more than half a day. The sun was beginning to sink down the horizon, casting brilliant orange rays across the surface of the ocean. Despite the beams, however, the oncoming evening was cool. Shadows stretched over the ship, obscuring Shiera's ability to see who was where on the dock. 

She had not even realized how far time had advanced, however, at least not until Nesta had spoken to her just a few moments ago. She blinked at the older woman. Cabin? Rest? Oh yes...she had to be in good condition for this voyage, she reminded herself, else she would not be able to present her best self to Prince Dorian and the Dornish court. Her father would not accept that.

"Yes, Nesta," she replied, standing up from the bench she had been sitting on. "Thank you." 

Nesta bowed her head. Shiera glanced about the dock, straining her eyes to peer through the shadows. She could make out the icy blonde of Daemon's hair in the darkness, but there was no trace of Irene.

"Has Irene retired already?" she asked Nesta. Her swordmaster nodded. "Many hours ago, my lady. Around high noon."

 _Gods of Old Valyria,_ Shiera thought. She knew she had been reminiscing for a long time, but for noon to have come and gone during her musing...it was strange to think that she had not at all noticed what was happening around her. She did not even remember Irene leaving!

But it was good that her language tutor had left for her cabin earlier in the day. Then Irene would likely not be catching any inflictions from the evening cold air. Daemon, however - as Shiera's vision adjusted to the darkness, she saw that he was sitting peacefully, leaning against the mast with his eyes closed. She might have thought he was sleeping, but she could see his fingers tracing his harp. 

"Daemon," she called.

Daemon opened his eyes. "Lady Shiera." He was not questioning her; merely an acknowledgment. Shiera wondered if she ought to have been offended, but she was so used to Daemon's aloofness at this point that she did not much care, or even notice, for that matter.

"Please retire to your cabin," she requested softly. "It would not do for you to catch an illness. The night will be cold." 

Daemon said nothing for a minute. This, again, did not concern Shiera. He had always been like this in the four years that she had known him; introspective, quiet, serene. One might even say calculating. 

"Yes, my lady," the musician conceded, standing to his full height. He smiled dimly, and Shiera returned it.

"Sleep well." His voice was formal and did not hold any particular affection, as usual. She inclined her head in acknowledgment, wondering if Daemon cared for her or her family. Why, she thought again, had her father brought him, an unknown boy whom nobody at court had seen before, to House Cerdarthien's keep? 

She asked the gods in her mind if she would ever find out. Not to her surprise, there was no answer. 

Shiera watched Daemon take his leave, disappearing down the stairs. The sound of his footsteps gradually faded. 

Next to her, Nesta shook her head, but she was smiling faintly. "That boy," her swordmaster commented, "He has always been peculiar."

Shiera could not argue with that, nor did she have any intention to. Daemon was indeed an odd man, but she was fond of him. How could she not be, after all that he had taught her? 

"Yes," she agreed, turning to the older woman. "You too, Nesta, you too must retire to bed. Do not stay on the dock, I do not want you catching a cough." She flashed Nesta a mischievous smile. "That is, unless you want to be suppressing your sniffles when I greet Prince Doran. Let Dorne know that Shiera Cerdarthien does not look after her companions' health."

"Of course not, my lady," Nesta said with mock-indignation. "I would never dream of ruining your reputation like that!"

"We will see," Shiera smiled. "Who knows? Mayhaps it would help lighten the atmosphere. Or mayhaps I will make a fool of myself even without your assistance." She shook her head, scolding herself mentally for thinking such things. The more she doubted herself, the duller she would appear, the more vulnerable. Shiera knew enough politics to be aware that courts were not quite the places of marvel and song and wonder that the songs made them out to be. 

It went beyond bringing pride to her house and her name. It was, in some way,  _survival._

 _"Remember, my sweet,"_ Mother had told her at the supper table, just the previous day.  _"You are the blood of Old Valyria. The blood of dragons and gods. They will try to drag you down, and when they do - and they **will** \- show them. Let them know the wrath of a dragon."_

 _The wrath of a dragon?_ Shiera wondered. The setting suns rays were now turning blood-red, casting its crimson rays across the sigil emblazoned on the sails of the ship.  _Dragons._

But Shiera was not a dragon, not until she proved it. Lannisters might call themselves lions. Starks might call themselves wolves. Targaryens might call themselves dragons, like her own house. But until they could prove it, what did it matter? What wrath did her mother speak of? She had no wrath. She was but a girl, freshly one-and-ten years old. Her mother had been trying to encourage her, she knew it, but to someone who was not a dragon, Aelyra's advice was of no use. 

She wondered if parents of other houses told their children similar things.  _You are a lion. You are a wolf. You are a dragon._ If they did, what did those children feel? Did such words help them, console them, the way they so failed to help or console Shiera? 

Shiera turned her gaze towards the horizon. Perhaps it was all very well being a lion, or a wolf, or a dragon. Perhaps they were words that were empowering and strengthening. Perhaps they allowed children to stand tall, to trust in the knowledge of what they were. 

But Shiera - Shiera would rather be Shiera first. 

 _You are Shiera._ But who was Shiera? Merely the next daughter of House Cerdarthien? A pawn in her father's gaze? A body with divine blood for her mother to be proud of? Maegor's sister? She could not answer.

But mayhaps, someday in Dorne, she would be able to. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was more or less filler, I apologize for that. I believe the next chapter will have more plot involved, though. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should warn you: this chapter gets a little questionable. Not in a mature or graphic way, but it most certainly contains mythos that is (almost) never mentioned at all in the canon ASOIAF series. Keep in mind, though, that it's simple mythology that has been the lore of House Cerdarthien since it was established, and that House Cerdarthien itself is non-ASOIAF canon material. It is up to the reader's interpretation to determine if this is true history (in the context of the story, of course), or if it's simply legend.

_Shiera found herself standing in front of a great pair of double doors, slightly ajar, a warm orange glow emanating from the inside. Everywhere around her was gray; the walls were of stone, the gigantic doors a dull monochrome. Shiera knew she ought to feel panicked. She had no inkling as to where she was and she was completely alone. And yet, she was calm._

_She stepped forward. Her feet were bare, but the hall was not chilly. She did not feel cold. The cold stone floor should be freezing as ice to the sensitive soles of her feet, but she felt nothing. Despite being clad in a simple purple[dress](https://ae01.alicdn.com/kf/HTB1WdrOSFXXXXarXVXXq6xXFXXXT/Simple-Purple-Straight-Evening-Dresses-Pleat-Formal-Gowns-For-Wedding-Party-Dress-Communion-Plus-Size-Custom.jpg), sleeveless, she was not shivering. No goosebumps erupted along the skin of her arms. _

_And her feet made no sound on the raw stone. It was almost as if she were floating._

_"I have seen it too."_

_The voice - a woman's - came from inside the pair of double doors. Walking cautiously forward, Shiera peered through the gap between them and found herself staring into a great hall. There were narrow windows with black panes down the length of the walls where daylight should have been streaming in, but outside, Shiera could see that it was pitch-black. The only source of light was the four torches flickering on the walls; the source of the orange glow._

_At the other end of the hall, directly facing the double doors, was a grand, elaborate seat placed upon a slightly elevated area of the hall, stairs leading up to it. From where Shiera stood, the throne and the elevated area appeared to be a dark gray color similar to the walls. Were they perhaps made of stone as well?_

_Sitting on the stone in a thoughtful posture was a man. Shiera could only make out silvery hair common among those of Valyrian descent. With the man were two women. One of them sat at the foot of the man, and the other stood by his side, her arms crossed over her shoulders. They, too, had the golden-silver hair that marked them as the blood of Old Valyria._

_Curious, somehow knowing that they did not see her and would not see her, Shiera slipped through the crack between the doors and padded lightly down the hall, approaching the trio. As she got closer, closer, closer, stopping at the bottom of the stairs. Now she could see the occupants of the room more clearly._

_All three of them had purple eyes. The man's was the richest shade of amethyst that Shiera had ever seen. The woman standing had hues that were paler; perhaps lilac would be an apt description. The woman sitting at the man's feet had a gaze that was colored somewhere between the other two._

_They were all very pleasing to the eye. Shiera was not surprised, for they were clearly descended from Old Valyria. The man had thick, dark brows, large, fierce eyes, and a grim set in his heavy jawline. His skin was fair. On his head rested a circlet, purely obsidian black. For a reason she could not comprehend, he was in armor, a long red cape tumbling over his shoulders and spread about the seat of his chair. His hair, she saw now, was quite tousled, silvery-gold strands falling over his forehead and into his face._

_The woman sitting at his feet had large, warm eyes, framed with long feathery lashes. Her shaped brows curled perfectly along her smooth brow. Her face was heart-shaped, framed with lustrous, well-groomed curls of silver-gold hair, loose and flowing. A delicate circlet of what appeared to be sterling silver sat gracefully on her head. She was dressed in a pale red tunic with, a golden belt circling her tiny waist, and black leggings._

_The woman standing with her arms crossed had large, stern eyes that slanted slightly upwards at their corners. Her lashes were long, as well, but sharp, and Shiera imagined that being glared at by this woman would be a terrifying thing. The woman standing wore a circlet similar to that of the other woman, but it was a darker gray color. Her face was shaped like an inverted triangle, but again unlike the other woman only a few golden-silver strands hung about it. The majority were pulled into a harsh braid that fell down her left shoulder. She wore a black, long-sleeved tunic with a brown leather corset over it, hugging her figure. Like the man, she had a red cape, draped over her right shoulder and cascading down, creating a sharp contrast with the dull gray stone. On her legs were black leggings, as well._

_"Indeed, sister," the woman sitting replied. "It is most alarming. To think that the dead would rise again to threaten the living..." She let out a breathy, melodic chuckle. "Orys would most certainly say we are mad. He must not hear this."_

_Orys. Orys Baratheon? Shiera had been suspecting it as soon as she'd laid eyes on these three, the two women and the one man, but 'Orys' likely confirmed it. She found herself staring at the figures with new reverence, her heart pounding even though she knew they could not see her. To think! To think she was gazing upon Aegon the Conqueror and his sister-wives, Visenya and Rhaenys, with her own eyes! They were not of her house, of course, but you could not be descended from Old Valyria and be unaware of the Targaryens' conquest of Westeros. Aegon, Visenya, and Rhaenys were forever immortalized in even the Free Cities, that much she knew._

_"Orys will follow us, whatsoever we may do." This time it was the man who spoke; Aegon the Conqueror. His voice was a deep and commanding baritone, just as Shiera had imagined. There was deep affection in the way he talked of Orys Baratheon, his future Hand of the King, as Shiera knew, and his rumored half-brother._

_"Yes," Visenya agreed. "He will. Aegon," her tone was firm and authoritative. "You are certain you will do this?"_

_"I thought you were the staunchest supporter, Visenya," commented Aegon. "It is not like you."_

_"If you believe that, dearest husband," Rhaenys chimed in, casting her older brother a playful look, "You do not know our sister at all."_

_Aegon shook his head, but there was a hint of mirth in his deep purple eyes. "It seems I am outnumbered by my sweet sisters," he teased._

_"Aegon, Rhaenys, focus," Visenya said. It was not quite a snap, but it was curt. Visenya, business-like and stern; so far, Shiera thought, the oldest sibling seemed exactly as she was in the tales._

_"This is no laughing matter," Visenya continued. "I want you to confirm that we will indeed be fulfilling what we have discussed. You understand the risks of this, I assume?"_

_"Of course," retorted Aegon. "Visenya, you underestimate me."_

_"Do I?" the famed warrior queen fixed Aegon with a stony look. She did not look threatening or intimidating; Shiera doubted she intended to. Merely **firm.** "Where do all our ambitions go, Aegon, if you die? Or Rhaenys? Or even I, for that matter?"_

**_Even I._ ** _Shiera winced mentally. She was not sure if she was trying to make connections where none existed, but the tales of Aegon's love for Rhaenys over Visenya flitted through her head. Visenya had placed herself last on the list, going as far as to put "even" in front of her name. Shiera could not help but think the warrior queen was, intentionally or not, insinuating that she was of less importance than her sister._

_Apparently Aegon had noticed as well, for Shiera did not miss the flash of concern in his eyes. Visenya saw it, too, if the sudden hardening of her gaze was anything to go by. Before the soon-to-be-Conqueror could speak, Visenya cut him off. "We are not infallible, Aegon, nor are we invulnerable."_

_"We have dragons," Aegon countered._

_Visenya glared at him sharply. "Dragons," she snapped, "are powerful. We have the advantage. Our dragons are like nothing Westeros has ever faced before. But they are not gods, Aegon, and neither are we."_

_"Indeed," a feminine voice purred into Shiera's ear, cold hands grasping her forearms. "They are not gods."_

_Gasping, Shiera whirled around, intent on shoving her ambusher away, but somehow, her lashing hands connected to naught but thin air. The woman had already, beyond all logic, placed a distance of about three meters between them._

_Visenya, Aegon, and Rhaenys were gone, as was the hallway. Shiera was standing in complete darkness, but she was able to see the woman standing across from her despite the lack of any possible light source._

_Logic fell away, however, when she set eyes on the face of the whisperer._

_She was not as pale as Shiera herself was, possessing a hint of a creamier complexion, but it made her unbound, impossibly lustrous locks glow all the more. Shiera found no words to describe the beauty of the woman's hair alone. It was the most flawless blend of gold and silver that she had ever laid her eyes on, far surpassing her own, far surpassing Visenya or Rhaenys or Shiera's own mother. It was as if the light of the sun and moon had combined perfectly to give this woman's hair its hue._

_Her body was like a dancer's; long, slender limbs, voluptuous curves, a full bosom and a tiny waist. Her hands and bare feet were small and slim, her neck smooth and graceful. The woman's dainty figure was clad in a simple, pale blue dress that somehow served to make her seem all the more breathtaking. She was a little below average height._

_Yet it was her face that stunned Shiera into motionlessness. It was a heart-shaped face, perfectly proportional to the rest of her body. Her features were almost too lovely to be considered real; a small, sculpted nose, full pink lips, delicately arching eyebrows, and huge, glassy eyes framed with black, feathery lashes._

_Her eyes._

_One eye was the lushest emerald green, the other the purest sapphire blue. It truly should have crooked her beauty, at least partially ruining its effect, but it did not, not in the least. The differing shades had no visual purpose other than heightening the woman's allure to almost unbearable levels._

_But more than that, they identified her._

_It was unmistakable, yet Shiera found that she could not believe it. The beauty, the mismatched eyes, the unattainable grace._

_This was Shiera Seastar, the most beautiful woman in the history of Westeros, and of House Cerdarthien._

_Shiera - she, Shiera Cerdarthien - was struck speechless. She knew, somehow, in some way, that it was truly Shiera Seastar and not a figment of a fevered mind or a drunken imagination. She had seen Aegon the Conqueror and his two sister-wives and queens, Rhaenys and Visenya. That alone was more than she could have imagined would happen to her, but to see Shiera Seastar herself in the same night..._

_"Oh, don't look so starstruck," Shiera - Shiera Seastar - tutted, looking her descendant up and down critically. "Pretty," she commented, "but not quite enough."_

_"What..." the younger Shiera stammered. "What do you mean? Enough for what?" Some vague part of her wondered if she should feel offended at being called 'not quite pretty enough'; she had never been referred to as such and was wholly unused to it, but the much larger part could not care in the slightest, too swept up in wonder._

_The first Shiera smiled teasingly, bearing her pearly white teeth. "Oh, you will learn," she promised. Despite her awe, frustration flickered in Shiera - Shiera Cerdarthien's - stomach. The older Shiera sounded so much like her father that it made her feel unpleasant._

_"You don't like that crypticity, do you?" Shiera Seastar noted, amusement chiming in her lilting voice. "Forgive me, my dear girl." The half-Targaryen bastard smiled again. "I am overly fond of mind games. It is not an inherently bad trait, despite how men like to label a cunning woman," she wrinkled her nose, which did absolutely nothing to decrease her stunning beauty, "but it **is** a bad trait in this context._

_"I should get directly to the point," Shiera Seastar continued. "You, Shiera-" she laughed, " - it is strange to refer to someone with my own name. Anyway, Shiera, I'm certain you're wondering why I'm here. Or if I'm even truly here." She smiled._

_Struggling to regain some of her wits, the younger Shiera nodded slowly. Her namesake looked pleased at that. "Good," Shiera Seastar said. "Well, I can assure you, my darling Shiera, that I'm truly here, and it's truly me. And I've come here to let you know that you must be diligent."_

_The wonder was being replaced with hot pricks of frustration, Shiera Cerdarthien realized. She was becoming agitated. "My lady -" she hesitated, not sure what to refer to the older woman as, "-my lady Seastar-"_

_"Oh no." Shiera Seastar wrinkled her nose with impossible grace and waved her tiny hand dismissively. "No need for that 'lady' nonsense, my dear girl. Call me," Sincerity flashed through the Great Bastard's huge, otherwise playful, mismatched eyes, "sister."_

_"'Sister'?" the younger echoed, temporarily rendered quite mute again._

_"Yes, 'sister'," the older repeated with a smile. "We will be something akin to sisters from now on."_

_"But why...?"_

_"Because," Shiera Seastar retraced herself back to the topic at hand, "It will be important."_

_"Why must you be so cryptic?" the younger Shiera burst out, her frustration at last getting the better of her. The older one - **sister** , she wished to be called - smiled again, but this time it was less than amused. "I am sorry, my dear girl," the Targaryen bastard murmured, "But I cannot be anything but cryptic. If not, everything would be meaningless."_

_"Why?" the younger one demanded. She was tired of receiving vague half-truths and veiled clues. "Why is it that receiving a concise answer suddenly makes everything meaningless?"_

_"The gods are whimsical things, Shiera," the Targaryen bastard responded calmly. "It would not do for you to know too much too soon."_

_"The gods," Shiera Cerdarthien said faintly. She felt a bit lightheaded, nothing like the floating specter she had been when watching Aegon, Rhaenys, and Visenya. She was unsure of what she had believed - she had prayed every day to the gods of Old Valyria, as her father and mother had ensured she do - but had she truly believed that such mighty beings existed? "Do the gods truly exist?"_

_"I believe you can answer that yourself, my darling Shiera."_

_The dream abruptly changed._

_She was moving forward. She could feel the sensation of slight bouncing, and in her hands she clutched something; a cord-like object, long and leathery. The unnaturally faint clop-clop-clop sounds, combined with other sensations, told Shiera she was sitting astride a cantering horse._

_Shiera pulled her horse into a trot and wheeled it around in a gentle arc. She could see another horse cantering towards her, still some distance ahead, the faint silhouette of a rider visible astride its back, but she did not feel alarmed at being followed. Did she know the rider?_

_"You're slow!" Shiera called playfully, halting her mount. Her voice was - older, somehow. Not deeper, but perhaps richer, more filled in, more...womanly? Melodic?_

_The figure closed the distance between them on their own horse until they were within a few feet of each other. And yet, Shiera could not see her companion's face. He was male, that much she could make out from his build, but any man could have that same figure, and she could not distinguish who he was._

_She beckoned her horse into a walk, the last few feet between them disappearing quickly._

**_~_ **

Shiera's eyes flew open. She could faintly sense the rocking motions of the ship, and above her, the ceiling of her cabin stared down at her form. It was smooth and unadorned but seemed oddly mocking. Shiera pulled herself into a sitting position, and tousled ivory locks spilled down her back. She stared numbly down at her lap, remembering everything.

What had it been? A mere dream? Or perhaps...

The thought made her mouth go dry with a dozen emotions. She had had mystical dreams before, glimpses of terrifyingly blue eyes and bursts of searingly warm flame and flashes of painful iciness. She remembered the details of many of them, and those she could no longer recall had faded only with time. 

But never had any dream been so detailed, so lifelike. Aegon, Visenya, and Rhaenys' voices echoed in her ears, as did the lilting chirp of the most beautiful woman who had ever lived. And gods...

_"I believe you can answer that yourself, my darling Shiera."_

She did not want to think about Shiera Seastar's words. How should she feel? Gods? The truly existed? Should she be fearful? Relieved? Curious? All of them? None? And who was that unknown figure?  _A man,_ she thought. She tried to recall anything she could have seen of him; only a glimpse of his facial structure, perhaps a flash of his eyes, or a fleeting glance of his chin - anything, really, to be able to distinguish this man from others.

But she could not recall any such details. Who could it have been? Maegor? She could not think of any other male she would spend such intimate time with...but then, she had been a woman in that dream, she knew. Mayhaps it was a lover, or even a husband.

That did not, of course, mean it would not be Maegor. Most likely, in fact, Shiera noted. House Cerdarthien had continued the practice of wedding brother and sister since the beginning of time. Somehow, a brother and sister of close enough age to be married had always been produced from within each wedlock. She and Maegor were not different. 

Her mother had always taken it as a sign of great importance that House Cerdarthien had been able to continue the custom of Old Valyria even centuries after the Doom of Valyria. She had always said it was an omen from the gods, indicative of their favor for her house. Shiera had not known what to feel; it seemed too fortunate to be coincidence, but _gods_...

_"I believe you can answer that yourself, my darling Shiera."_

Were the gods real? Truly? 

Knowing she would not be able to close her eyes peacefully anymore, Shiera rose from her bed. The silk material of her nightgown slipped against her skin as she peered through the ornate cotton curtains to the sea outside. The sun had just begun to rise, throwing golden rays across the gently undulating surface of the ocean. It was a beautiful sight, but one that Shiera could find no peace in. 

Drawing the curtains closed, Shiera opened her trunk, intent on finding what she hoped would assuage her doubts somewhat. Her hand closed around something flat and smooth and cool, and she drew it back out to see her pale fingers clutching that leather-bound book that her mother had given her. 

Pulling it onto her lap, Shiera wondered briefly if she ought to open the second trunk, the one that contained a variety of the herbs used in Valyrian incantations and the dragonglass candles, but she brushed the thought away. Perhaps later. Right now, all she desired to do was feel some semblance of stability beneath her feet. 

Going to her bed and opening the book, Shiera began to read. She had not touched the book since her mother had given it to her, too taken up with familiarizing herself with the customs of Westeros, but she knew she would soon come to regret that.

_Thousands upon thousands of years ago, the gods of Old Valyria walked among men. They did not make themselves known, but wore forms of disguise, interacting with the mortals, concealing their true power and wisdom and wrath. But always the gods drew a line between themselves and mortals, for divine and earthly beings were not to mix._

_Then one day, when this practice had been occurring for a millennium, the god Balerion committed the unthinkable. He gave his heart, and his body as well, to a mortal woman. This woman's name was Riliane. And for Balerion's grave mishandling of himself, the gods decreed that they should walk among mortals no more, and departed into the skies. Balerion would have sooner stayed with his beloved Riliane, but Syrax and Vhagar, his sisters, bore him forcefully into the heavens alongside them._

_Riliane was a princess of a large country, and many suitors flocked about her. For she was beautiful, and clever, and graceful besides, with long, ivory hair, dewy, pale skin, narrow of waist and large of breasts. Her eyes were opal, shifting colors of ocean blue and smoky green and moonlight silver streaks._

_But her belly grew great with child, and word broke out: Riliane, princess, unmarried, beautiful, had lain with a man outside of wedlock. The number of suitors withered away, as moonflowers wither under the sun's heat, and Riliane's father was ashamed. He cast his daughter into the wilderness, and surely, all thought, surely she would die._

_And yet, among the court, a knight dwelled, a knight by the name of Allen, and he loved and desired Riliane, for she had been his dear friend since childhood - though his love, burning so brightly in his heart, was not returned. Despite this, Allen pursued his princess into the wilderness, and, finding her, swore to be her protector and caregiver, forever._

_In the heavens, Balerion fought wildly to return to his beloved Riliane, but at the swearing of the other gods to give their blessing to her and her descendants, he relinquished his fight with sorrow but better satisfaction. He gazed down on the earth and saw his Riliane, accompanied by a skilled, strong, young knight. And Balerion, in gratefulness to Allen for protecting whom he loved, granted the young knight courage and skill unparalleled, so that he might live for the woman in both of their hearts._

_Riliane gave birth, and her children were a pair of twins: a boy and a girl. Both possessed their mother's pale skin, and her moonlight-silver hair, but once their eyes opened they were amethyst, echoes of their divine father's form during his union with their mother. Riliane suffered severe exhaustion after their birth, for her children were half-god, and a far greater burden to bear than human children. But she was strong of will, and her resolve heightened by her love for her children; thus, Riliane prevailed and did not perish from the strain of childbirth._

_She took her children into her arms, and named the girl Varsha, and the boy Vayu. Varsha and Vayu were close as siblings - twins - could be. They were both swift and lithe on their feet, oddly strong since birth, and bizarre events occurred when they were in the area. For example, Riliane one day paced beneath an apple tree, a basket in hand, trying to think of how best to retrieve the apples, which were too high for her reach. No sooner had she decided to request Allen - behind her, holding her children - to hand Vayu and Varsha to her so that he might lift her up to allow her to reach the apples, three of the red fruits had fallen directly into her basket, and Varsha and Vayu, six moons old, had laughed and clapped their little hands and crowed in delight._

_As Vayu and Varsha grew, it became ever-clearer that they were treasures, rare and exotic and the only two in the world. For magic ran thickly through their veins, as their father was a god. And as Balerion had been beautiful beyond reason, so, too, were his children, half-human though they might be._

_In Vayu, Balerion could be seen, clear as stars in a cloudless night. For as the years passed, his skin tanned to the coppery hue that his father's had been, and his nose was tall, its bridge straight and strong, and its tip pointed and tapering. His eyes were large, his brows dark and thick. And yet his hair was pale and flaxen, gleaming silvery in moonlight. He was tall and strong; full, broad shoulders, a well-muscled chest, powerful legs. His voice was a baritone, commanding and confident._

_His sister was much more her mother in appearance. Her porcelain skin never darkened, even as she grew, and her lips were full, soft, and pink, her eyes glassy and gleaming, amethyst like her father's, framed with long black lashes. Her nose was small and its bridge a graceful curve, her chin gently pointed and her cheekbones high. And yet, like her father, her brows were full and dark, though graceful and arching like her mother's. Varsha was small of stature, like her mother; limbs long and smooth, waist tiny and breasts full._

_They were inhumanly beautiful children, and Riliane knew it must be the divine blood in their veins. Scarcely a day passed as the twins matured that their mother could not but marvel at the miracles she had birthed and raised. And yet their next "miracle", as they had called it, did not amuse her so._

_One day, when Varsha and Vayu were seven-and-ten years of age, their mother and their protector left them alone and together in search of food. The twins had long been battling the unknown passion flowering between them, but that day, abandoned in only each other's company, they gave into their fervor, and the sister gave her maidenhead to her brother._

_And Riliane and Allen were appalled. Even among royalty it was unheard of, a coupling of brother and sister, and twins, at that. Their mother pleaded them to return to being simply siblings once again, but Varsha and Vayu had felt the rightness of their love within the foundations of their souls that night in each other's arms, and they refused. It was a miracle, they insisted, that they had found each other to complete their own selves._

_Riliane and Allen were distraught, but they, in time, grew to accept the incomprehensible relationship of Vayu and Varsha. For the blood of the god Balerion flowed through their veins; why, then, should they bow their heads and bend to the wills of mortal rules?_

_And so, centuries passed._

_Allen and Riliane had long since departed the world, but Vayu and Varsha remained. They dwelt together in the forests of the known world, ever-young, their life and their beauty preserved, for they were the flesh and blood of gods walking on mortal soil. Vayu called Varsha his dearest sister sometimes and his most beloved wife at others, and Varsha called Vayu her most precious brother at times and her most cherished husband at others._

_They were not alone, however, for in their love and lust they had brought to the world more of the blood of Balerion: four sisters, Elida, Hellene, Lucrecia, and Rhaelira, and four brothers, Ailwin, Taeglin, Azriel, and Reubyn. All their children possessed beauty of inhuman proportions, and their mother, despite her body bearing so many new lives, remained as buxom and youthful and lovely as ever. Vayu himself changed not at all, as well._

_It came to pass that humans venturing through the deep wilderness would catch glimpses of these half-god, half-mortal beings, breathtaking beyond possibility, elegant and graceful and intuned with the world in ways humans could not understand. Their existence never was confirmed or accepted as fact, but they came to be something of legends among humanity, and were given the label "the Sidhe"._

_The Sidhe were powerful in incomprehensible ways. Their famed beauty aside, they drew into the wells of magic provided by their divine heritage, executing sorcerous deeds, shaping the materials of the world to their whim. It is not recorded in history the extent of the power of these earliest half-man, half-god entities, but suffice to say that their abilities were never before seen and never would be seen again. Brothers continued to wed sisters, and a lineage with the blood of the god Balerion was produced and thrived._

_Yet with each generation the god-children weakened, for the influence of the divine grew lesser and lesser over them as several millennia passed. Nevertheless, they remained more beautiful and more powerful and more desirable in comparison to mortals, thanks to their godly heritage._

_Two pairs began the eternal rivalry._

_Ailwin and Lucrecia, the oldest brother and second sister, joined in love and desire, as did Azriel and Elida, the second brother and oldest sister, each of them producing two daughters and two sons, whose names are lost in the annals of time. Their other siblings assimilated themselves with the mortal world and wed humans, diluting and weakening the blood of the gods greatly._

_In the meantime between Ailwin and Lucrecia and Azriel and Elida, the Rift occurred. It is not recorded what the great and bitter quarrel was fought over, but Ailwina and Lucrecia took the surname "Cerdarthien", to bequeath upon all of their descendants forevermore, and Azriel and Elida took the surname "Nynaeve" for the same purpose. Their brothers and sisters and siblings-by-marriage all gathered behind one name or the other. And thus was formed the two greatest and eternally rival bloodlines that would become the most powerful houses of dragonlords in Old Valyria._

_But for now there were no dragons, and the two rival scores were content to draw apart and dwell in different areas of the continent. As generations passed, the blood of Balerion diluted and the Sidhe's capacity for the supernatural arts weakened, although their capacity remained far above that of an average mortal's._

_It is not spoken of why or how the violent feud between Houses Cerdarthien and Nyrnaeve and their respective supporters came to be, nor is it spoken what transpired between the two families, for the truth was too gruesome, too horrendous, to stomach. But the earthly bloodline of the god Balerion that had once been one, united and powerful, cleaved in two, and with House Cerdarthien went nineteen other houses: House Celtigar, House Velaryon, House Elyvian, House Maeglyrve, House Targaryen, House Ouroboros, House Kythera, House Nolofion, House Arafinwylle, House Istelindar, House Kanafyon, House Autriche, House Melianthyr, House Laurefindel, House Feanoriel, House Manawenuz, House Luthienia, and House Gilthonielle._

_With House Nyrnaeve went the nineteen remaining houses: House Fayreh, House Belekoroz, House Junovisus, House Raphaylon, House Belaerys, House Yrene, House Idrithil, House Vivianne, House Piotr, House Morgana, House Akylaina, House Corvirayne, House Mirahlye, House Pheyllon, House Ashalamir, House Niathorne, House Tsaniyne, House Kortalaeys, and House Syrvyver. And thus forth they were divided, and Balerion looked down in sorrow and anger._

_House Cerdarthien, rivaled in power and prestige only by House Nyrnave, was revered and feared through the empire Old Valyria and beyond, word of them stretching to the Yi Ti Empire and Asshai. Strong were its members in the supernatural arts, and fierce were the dragons that they mounted and rode through the skies and into battle. Predictably, its only match was House Nyrnaeve, their enemies since the days of the ancient Sidhe._

Shiera snapped the book shut, startling even herself. She stared stonily at its battered and worn cover, mind spinning as if she had just been twirled round and round relentlessly, ceaselessly. She had not realized that she felt somewhat faint, her breathing too shallow and too quick, her pulse too rapid to be considered normal. She breathed in deeply to calm herself. 

_"The gods. Do the gods truly exist?"_

_"I believe you can answer that yourself, my darling Shiera."_

What was this?

Was she to believe that entities of such power and unfathomable insight truly existed. She reached for her curtains once more and parted them with a hand, allowing sunlight to wash her cabin in a rosy golden-pink glow once more. Shiera was frozen, unable to tear her amethyst gaze from the horizon, where the sky and the sea embraced. 

 _Truly?_ Were the gods of Old Valyria watching over her?

Or were the words she had read until now been nothing more than a fable? A myth born of overblown conceit for House Cerdarthien's bloodline? She knew Valyrians were not normal; they were the blood of the dragon. The crimson liquid that flowed through their veins was not the same crimson liquid that flowed through the veins of other humans. And the tale was faithful to the history she had learned growing, for it correctly named the houses pledged to House Cerdarthien and the houses pledged to House Nyrnaeve. But to hear that she might be descended from a  _god_ \- especially a god such as Balerion, the god of war, sexuality, cunning, and strategy. 

He was a very prevalent god, a very worshipped and revered god, amongst the deities of Old Valyria. And to think that she, Shiera Cerdarthien, and her kin - and _all_ Valyrians, for that matter - might be descended from such a deity terrified her. Perhaps it should have made her feel strong, prompt her to stand tall, beckon her to raise her chin with pride, but it did none of those things. It only terrified her.

Shiera remained huddled next to the curtains of her cabin, staring blankly, vacuously, at the tome laying in her lap. Only when the sun was high enough in the sky to indicate morning, not dawn, and Nesta knocked on the door and called her name, was Shiera drawn out of her thoughts. And it made her nearly sob with relief as she stood on unsteady legs to open the door for her swordmaster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got the name "Riliane" from the Narnia series' "Rilian" - just added the "-e" to the end as I thought it made the name look more feminine. "Allen" came from Celtic, and it means "harmony", "stone", or "noble". "Varsha" in India means "rain", and the name "Vayu" I got from Sanskrit, and it means "air"/"wind". I thought it was a nice correlation.
> 
> The other names, I just looked up or thought of "fantasy names" and tweaked the letters (a lot). I do admit that many of the House names have blatant Tolkien references, lol. (I'm an obsessed fan of Tolkien.)


End file.
